


The Way to a Consulting Detective's Heart

by Brennah_K



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, Sherlock Holmes(BBC)
Genre: M/M, Medical Experimentation, Object Insertion, PWP, Pharmaceutical experimentation, Stress Testing, bored Sherlock/desperate John, forced; delayed; and denied orgasms, mild bondage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brennah_K/pseuds/Brennah_K
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lestrade gives John a bit of bad news, John contrives an experiment of his own to distract Sherlock, an experiment that is unexpectedly successful offering a new hypothesis John had never considered and series of experiments that promise to sate even Sherlock’s rabid thirst for new and unique data.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

While John is generally loath to encourage Sherlock’s dramatic pouts, at the moment, he could not be more grateful that Sherlock had flounced out ten minutes earlier. 

It would have been quite intolerable to suffer through Sherlock’s interpreting gaze as he dropped his head to his forearm with a groan and pounded it against the arm seven more times, muttering surprisingly foul curses - somewhat unusually aimed at the detective inspector - as the Lestrade’s words replayed in his thoughts.

ブレンキン

_“John, I just thought that I should give you a heads up.” Lestrade began, sounding marginally uncomfortable._  


“About what?”

_“I’ll be taking a bit of voluntary leave, come Monday next. So, your flatmate ‘ll not be getting anything coming his way from my squad, and the DI taking them for the interim, he’s … well I’ll just say that he’s not as tolerant of citizens mucking about in his cases as I might be.”_

_“Voluntary leave? The way you say that doesn’t give me the impression that it was voluntary at all.” John sighs, already seeing where their conversation was going._

_“Well, let’s just say I was given a choice. Fourteen days, if I take the leave without a squawk, thirty if I don’t.”_

_“Shite, Gregg, what did you do?”_

_“Er. I might have taken a swing at one of the PM’s blockheads.”_

_“What?!? What were you thinking?”_

_“Might not have been- to be truthful - but in my defense, the wanker suggested that I’ve been ignoring suspects in the labour party in favor of persecuting conservatives.”_

_“Okay, I can’t say that I blame you there, but you realize that this puts me in a bit of a spot.”_

_“I think you put yourself there, John, but I’ll still buy you a pint when I get back.”_

_“That’s a bit of salt in the wound,” John sighs, though he’s unable to deny Lestrade’s claim, “but I’ll take you up on that pint, if I survive it.”_

_“Good Luck on that, mate,” Lestrade laughed, before offering a suggestion, “Don’t forget to call Molly if he gets too bad, she can usually be counted on for an odd stiff, if needs must.”_

_“Thanks, Gregg. Take care.”_

_“You too, Poor Sod.” Lestrade murmured, his voice full of sympathy as he ended the call._

Unless fate took a sudden liking to John, when she never had before, and offered up an intriguing case to capture Sherlock’s interest, John was looking at two full weeks of intensely bored and characteristically irritable Sherlock. Two weeks of discordant violin solos, destructive and often disgusting experimentation, and behavior that would warrant the levying of an ASBO - if Sherlock could be arsed to even leave the flat long enough to interact with anyone who didn’t know him well enough to pity him into grudging silence (Ms. Hudson) or threaten to forcibly sedate him (John) if he didn’t start behaving better.

ブレンキン

Pounding his head on his forearms wasn’t nearly as satisfying as pounding his head on the kitchen table would have been (despite the dodgy history of experimentation that it had been exposed to) but the act must have shaken something loose from his subconscious, and in his desperation, John let himself consider it when he might not have otherwise.

Years ago, during medical school, when a certain pharmaceutical, sildenafil citrate, came into extreme popularity, John had wondered about a few experiments that might be run to test the scope and performance of the phosphodiesterase enzyme inhibitors but had never mentioned it to his instructors or followed up on it after graduation. John had, after all, gone into the military shortly after, and ED treatments were not a prominent concern of battlefield medics. 

The thought breached a realm that he had never approached with Sherlock, bar that one awkward question about Sherlock’s relationships that he’d asked at Angelo’s, and Sherlock might very well knock his block off, simply at the suggestion. 

Still, if there was even the slightest chance that it piqued Sherlock’s interest, the possible benefits from it were tantalizing in more ways than one: the experimentation would be decidedly non-destructive, and the endorphins released in the process would have to have a salutary effect on the ever-threatening black moods that accompanied Sherlock’s boredom. 

Smiling wickedly, John made a few quick calls to the clinic, arranging for a twelve day vacation (the most his supervisor could offer despite the number of double shifts and on-call evenings he’s volunteered); to Mike Stamford, who actually began giggling before the call was finished; and to the chemists to arrange for delivery of the prescription that Mike had just called in. 

After getting off the phone, however, it became apparent Mike had supplemented the prescription when a second delivery arrived, consisting of several sterile-sealed probes, sounds, and accompanying medical supplies that suggested by their inclusion hypotheses and experimentation directions that John had not even had the time to consider yet - and not for the first time John was brought to wonder what Mike and Sherlock’s relationship had been before he had arrived on scene... or at least what Mike had hoped it could be. 

Careful to store the delivered supplies into the base of his medical case, below the general first aid supplies that he kept on hand for Sherlock’s usual array of post-chase injuries, John cared out the cardboard boxes that they had arrived in, on his trip to Tesco’s to stock up for the week. A short side discussion with Ms. Hudson, relaying Lestrade’s news, quickly convinced her to arrange a two week vacation of her own - visiting her granddaughter in Leeds, quite far enough away that John could be reasonably certain of pursuing his experiment without a feeling of undue immodesty on his part. Now the only matter that remained was engaging Sherlock. 

Discarding the obvious expediency of simply explaining the situation and asking for Sherlock’s participation, John glanced over the paper for some little byte of news that he could use as a segue into the topic.

ブレンキン

By the time Sherlock skulked back into the flat, carrying several containers of take out chinese, and presumably feeling somewhat abashed by his earlier behavior, John had opened his laptop and begun fiddling around with a spreadsheet, almost haphazardly labeling columns and rows with a few of the data markers that he had considered testing for, when he had first conceived of the experiments. After thanking Sherlock for thinking of the dinner, and grabbing to plates for them to dish out into, John grabbed up a set of chopsticks, pulled the plate into his lap, and began to study his spreadsheet idly making changes, every once in a while, before returning to eat.

Making a concerted effort not to pretend to ignore Sherlock for the spreadsheet, nor to specifically pay attention to his flatmate, John suppressed a smile of triumph when Sherlock folded the paper and tossed it practically off the table with a huff, before asking, “What are you working on? That’s not how you type for your blog.” 

“Oh, well, not anything really. You’re right it’s not my blog. I’ve a few days off, this Monday next,and I was sitting around thinking about what to do with my time.”

“That is not quite a complete answer.” Sherlock huffed impatiently.

Giving a hapless shrug, John caught several noodles up between his chopsticks and sucked on them trying to seem thoughtful before he shrugged and answered, “I suppose you’ve given me a bit of the experimentation bug. Something came to mind that I hadn’t thought about in years, and I was thinking about trying it, but...” he trailed off in a vague shrug. 

Although Sherlock hadn’t straightened even an inch, or slowed his fussy stirring of the sweet and sour soup with dumplings, John was sure he was hooked, when he repeated, “but...”

“It was just an idle notion.”

“A notion that you’ve spent the past forty-five minutes hemming and humming over.”

“Have I?” John asked, truly surprised. He had been so focused on observing Sherlock without actually ‘watching’ him, that he’d lost track of time. 

“Yes.” Sherlock sighed like the question was more than a little bit ridiculous. 

“Oh, I suppose I’ve wasted more than enough time on it. Have something else you would like to do?”

“Yes, I would like to know why you’d spend forty-five minutes working out an experiment that you’re not actually interested in doing.” Sherlock’s voice had a charming note of confusion as he asked - as if he couldn’t understand how someone could think of an experiment and then not go through with it. Well, perhaps, he couldn’t.


	2. To Continue as We've Started

“It’s not that I’m not interested in doing it." John answered with as much forced causualness as he could muster. "It’s just that are more than a few obstacles that I’m not sure how to get around.” 

Sherlock leaned across the dining table and turned the the laptop so he could see the spreadsheet. 

“What is the focus of this experiment of yours?”

“Well, I suppose the most concise way of describing it would be a physiological-psychological response to stress testing with the complication of phosphodiesterase enzyme inhibitors - under closely controlled circumstances, of course, but you can see why I suppose that this...”

“Phosphodiesterase enzyme inhibitors are used to treat vascular disease & nerve problems, correct? And while they aren’t supported by the NHS, they are readily available through most chemists with a prescription?”

“Yes.” John answered with amusement, wondering why Sherlock knew so much about the ED treatments. 

“Hmmm. I had considered a test along those lines, several years ago, but as you say, there were obstacles: the chief of which were that it would require a live subject and an observer familiar with clinical detail, access to suitable quantities and varieties of the inhibitors, and as you said sufficiently controlled conditions. I had considered inquiring whether Molly would be willing to observe, but later decided that she might lack the objectivity to perform the task adequately.”

Choking on a bit of noodle at that, John set his plate down, wiped up the noodles that had missed his mouth, and nodded mutely - distinctly trying not to imagine Molly leaning over Sherlock to perform the little experiments he’d been imagining for the better part of the day.

ブレンキン

John left Sherlock tailoring the spreadsheet to include the data he wished to gather, while he went out to - presumably - gather the supplies they would need. In the end, he did gather additional supplies of a decidedly non-medical variety and nonchalantly returned to their flat and up to his room where they had agreed to perform their experiment, after Sherlock had grudgingly admitted that his room was neither sufficiently sanitary nor roomy enough to permit their activities.

ブレンキン

By twenty past four, Sherlock had finished editing their spreadsheet; bathed; attended to whatever additional grooming he felt appropriate; and donned the thin white terry bathrobe and functional white, fleece-strapped bedroom slippers that John had purchased and left for him on the dining table as he worked. 

While neither were of the standards that his well-bred and particular flatmate would have chosen for a post-bathing attire, they were extremely well-suited to the purpose that John intended it for - namely to cement in Sherlock’s mind that he was not, for once, to be the objective, detached observer - but for once, was simply to react to the stimuli he would be exposed to, as a proper test subject should. 

Although John wasn’t entirely certain that Sherlock was capable of truly and authentically responding without allowing his ever-analyzing intellect overshadow his true response, John did hope that he could use Sherlock’s own thirst for accurate and irrefutable data to over ride his natural instinct. 

Basking momentarily in Sherlock’s approving gaze, John glanced around the room with a satisfied eye. 

While not precisely as sterile or as spartan as a hospital room, John had created a credible mimicry with the supplies he had on hand. Sparing extra linen to cover his desk and bedside chair, he had remade the bed, with pristine linens, which he covered over with a wide strip of fresh butchers paper, from the one of the rolls he had purchased on outing. The desk top was similarly covered in the butchers paper and the mix of implements that Mike had supplied and he had bought lay carefully arranged on the desk - carefully arranged under another sheet of butcher’s paper. Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s gaze to the desk that John had pulled functionally close to the bed, and Sherlock moved toward it, his expression full of curiosity.

“Actually, Sherlock, we will not need those immediately, and it would be better toward our purposes to keep everything as sterile as possible so that we don’t taint any of the results. In any event, before we start, I need to complete a thorough medical history on you and establish the necessary baselines so that we can accurately judge your reactions under stress.”

“You already have my medical history.” Sherlock denied, with an impatient pout. 

“Your general medical history, yes; however, not your history as it pertains to the specific scope of our inquiry, so if you will take a seat please, I will take you vitals, ask a few brief questions, and then we can proceed to the physical.”

“Is that really necessary?” Sherlock questioned as John curled his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist to take his radial pulse. 

“Shhhh. Shhhh. There.” John smiled and marked down Sherlock’s resting radial pulse in the cell provided.

“Sherlock, why did you think it was on the spreadsheet if I didn’t intend to check for it? In any event, do you really think I am going to allow you to ingest a pharmaceutical of any type without one? Especially from a class of pharmaceuticals that have not been legally prescribed to you in the course of an ordinary/authorized medical treatment.”

Pushing the bathrobe sleeve up gently, he pressed his fingertips into the inner crease of Sherlock’s elbow, counting under his breath as Sherlock gaze became inquisitive. 

“Good, both your radial and brachial pulse rates are strong and steady. Extend your arm slightly so your wrist rests on knee. Thank you.” John leaned over Sherlock’s arm to wrap the blood pressure cuff over the brachial artery, just above Sherlock’s elbow. 

Slipping his finger under the cuff, John carefully checked the gap between Sherlock’s forearm and the cuff before he began to inflate it, instructing Sherlock, “If at any point, the cuff feels to tight, do let me know.”

Sherlock nodded jerkily, his eyes never leaving the fingertip John still had crooked into the top of the cuff until the inflated cuff pressed it out. 

When the cuff's pressure was finally spent, John patted his arm with a smile, pleased that Sherlock had both managed to remain still for the rather mundane procedure and that he had returned a healthy – if low- systolic, diastolic balance. Despite Sherlock's sometimes annoying vigor, John had half feared that his occasional dalliance with controlled substances might have caused peripheral vascular damage. 

“Very nice. Despite your erratic sleeping and eating habits, your blood pressure is in the low athletic range.” John reinforced his moderately barbed compliment with a warm smile, as he removed the cuff. 

Deciding to press ahead while he had Sherlock still and cooperative, John suggested, “Let's continue as we've started, shall we? I can gather your history after we're finished.”

Sherlock gave another jerky nod and his eyes flickered toward the desk again, but John had already pocketed the miniature flash light. 

John had often wondered whether it was even possible to bring Sherlock to a state of absolute sensory satiation, and had long suspected that if he were to hope to do so, he would have to first engage Sherlocks' mind into the exercise... so had been carefully thinking over the questions he would posit in his presumed medical interview. 

"Let's work up to this from the beginning, shall we?" He offered, and smiled as a still mostly silent Sherlock nodded. His flatmate's cheeks slightly warmer than pale. 

"I imagine, with your keen mind, you remember your first experience of sexual urges. Describe it for me please?" 

"What?" Sherlock, questioned startled.

"All part of the history, my Dear Man," John coaxed, "Just to determine which developmental patterns your puberty followed. So back to it, how old were you? What was the feeling like? Was there any pressure? Pain? Any suggestion of vascular abnormalities? I imagine that you would have certainly taken the opportunity to look at yourself and verify that the sensations were not injurious? Provide as much detail as you can, of course?" 

John surpressed the wicked smile that wanted to surface at Sherlock's veritible deer-in-the-headlight expression... and his slightly quickened breathing. 

"Well?" He pressed lightly. "You do remember it don't you?"

Sherlock jerked his head in a half-startled nod, still staring at John, but not seeming - for once- to be trying to read or figure him out. Instead, his gaze looked a bit awkward and uncertain, as if his usual eloquence (when it existed) had completely deserted him. 

Finally...

"Ten... No, eleven, I think." 

"Good, that's good. Now details..."


	3. Building a Hypothesis

Sherlock's complexion had taken on a slight flush by the time that John had finished taking the most detailed "medical" history he'd ever taken, and John had been pleased to note that he had started shifting somewhat awkwardly as he watched John finishing jotting notes into the printed copy of the spreadsheet.

Looking back over the notes he'd taken, John suspected that he was beginning to understand an underlying cause of Sherlock's mood swings. His friend hadn't been kidding when he'd said that relationships weren't his thing: John had gotten more sex in his first month in Afghanistan than Sherlock had since coming into puberty.

Tapping the tip of his pen against the clip board, John had to suppress his amusement at Sherlock's attempt to appear disinterested despite the fact that he leaned forward in anticipation whenever John moved toward the paper covered tray. 

For someone who expressed himself as physically as Sherlock tended to, denying himself the outlet of sexual activity had to be akin to plugging the vent of a pressure cooker: something was bound to blow up. 

Not that he couldn't understand, completely, Sherlock's reticence for the activity; discovering that one's brother was a voyeur had to be off-putting, particularly when said brother had unrestricted access to the entire nations' CCTV system and a penchant for having 'listening and observation' devices planted in his flat. That thought had taken the wind out of John for a moment, until Sherlock had swiftly assured him that he had done a thorough sweep of the flat while John was out picking up the needed supplies. 

Setting his theory aside as he noticed a small restless movement from Sherlock, John finally approached the butcher paper cover tray. 

Sherlock's breath stilled as he slid his hand under the cover, and John was perversely tempted to simply pull it back out, faking that he had forgotten to take one vital statistic or other, but decided against it, uncertain whether his acting skills would suffice. Instead he let his fingers close around the bulb, tube, and column of the pump that Mike had gleefully written the prescription for, and pulled them out as carefully as he could – to not disturb the cover. 

“That appears to be a … pump.” Sherlock asked in a slightly querulous tone. His tone and arched eyebrow made it clearly a question despite its construction. 

“Yes, quite, unlike the majority of your musculature, the venous, smooth-muscle tissue of your genitalia – in order to achieve a full erection must relax allowing the veins to carry blood into your shaft, instead of contract. Both muscle relaxants and protease inhibitors will do this as well; however, before we use either, we should get a base line for both the dimensions and … well... not to put to fine a point on it... blood storage capacity with and without arousal.”

“I … yes... I see.” Sherlock commented in a dry breathy voice, “and how will this … achieve that … end?”

Pleased with Sherlock's clear interest, and even more so by his discomfiture. John schooled his expression into his best professional clinician's mask and lectured, “After we take initial measurements, I will place this cylinder over your penis, fully to the base of your shaft. The rubber seal, when placed appropriately, will enable a vacuum to be created when the bulb is released. Each time the bulb is released it will draw air from the cylinder, creating negative pressure, which will assist the spongy muscle tissue to expand allowing the veins to carry blood into your shaft. Seven cycles is sufficient to displace the entire volume of air trapped in the cylinder. Between each cycle, we will note any changes, by use of the gridlines etched into the left side. Are there any points you would like to clarify?”

Sherlock was surprisingly silent, and when he shook his head, his upper lip has edged just enough out covering the lower lip, that John suspected he was very close to actually biting his lip. Sherlock's eyes, when he glanced up into John's, were almost glittering with interest and anticipation. 

“Alright then,” John agreed, thinking, 'Gotcha!', before he ordered, “Open your robe.”

His crisp certainty caught Sherlock by surprise, but his friend immediately complied dropping the edges of his robe open to each side. Despite his interest, even eagerness, Sherlock's cheeks warmed with a light rose flush, and he shifted slightly as he realized that John's hand was moving toward him to touch, measure, and assess him in a very personal manner. 

Smiling his encouragement, John pushed forward intent on securing Sherlock's cooperation before the man could realize that he had been manipulated into the so-called experiment, or get a case of nerves and back out (Although, in John's opinion, the latter was incredibly unlikely: Sherlock was far more likely to push the boundaries of an experiment than abandon it.) 

Pulling out the set of mortician's calipers that has been waiting in his pocket, he took Sherlock in hand, measuring length, width, girth, and thickness, calling them off to Sherlock to be recorded on the clip board, noticing with pleasure that it took is friend more than a few seconds to react and that in the time between, Sherlock's measurements had already changed, as had his breathing, picking up minutely in speed, and the depth of his blush. 

When he had finished reading them off to Sherlock, John almost wickedly decided to test his luck, and ordered Sherlock to read the list back to him as he double checked, making sure that Sherlock vocally labeled each measurement as he read them back. Much to John's amusement, several had to be corrected again, upward. With the corrections made, he gave into the urge to pat the top of Sherlock's cock, just as he had patted his hand and shoulder earlier, and smiled benignly at the little sound that Sherlock swallowed to silence, at the action. 

“Now, if you will lean back and rest your hands at least shoulder width apart behind you on the bed.” John ordered as he picked the pump up. 

“Why would that be needed?” Sherlock protested for the first time; not unexpectedly though, John had easily anticipated that the particularly active detective would not appreciate being placed in the more passive position. 

“For accurate data, of course.” John replied having already planned out this argument and the next. “If you'll remember, the goal at this stage is to both get a baseline with as limited arousal as possible and to confirm that you have a sufficient flow of venous blood is sufficient to maintain an erection.” 

“You've already failed at the arousal part.” Sherlock grumbled with a rueful tinge of embarrassment, even as complied with the order. 

“As I said, as limited arousal as possible.” 

Without further comment, John held Sherlock's cock steady and fed it down the cylinder until the soft rubber seal brushed the edge of his fingers. When he removed his fingers, and pushed the seal flat to the edge of Sherlock's base and scrotum, his friend gasped. 

“Did that hurt?” John questioned, knowing that it hadn't; he had been more than careful enough to ensure that it hadn't, but he wasn't blind to his flatmate's already growing erection. 

“No.” Sherlock bit out, “Go on.” 

Deciding not to play on Sherlock's humor further, John did as ordered, releasing the bulb to draw the air from the cylinder, then twisting the valve stem to seal the tube, he squeezed the bulb again to expel the air and bent over the cylinder to check the measurement, reading it off. 

Sherlock's eyes, when John turned to glance up at him, were wide, not dilated, nor blown, but more surprised... startled, and John wasn't entirely certain that Sherlock had even heard him. 

Picking up the clip board for himself, John noted the the measurement down and reached for the bulb again, watching Sherlock's expression from the corner of his eye. He repeated the process several times over, careful not to pay too much attention to Sherlock's intense engagement in the process as he reported the changes and jotted them down on the appropriate cells on the spreadsheet. 

With the seventh repetition... after reading off the seventh set of measurements, John glanced up and was astonished, Sherlock's expression had completely transformed. The air of instinctive cynicism Sherlock seemed to wear, almost unconsciously, had faded from his expression to be replaced by a uncertain, dazed blankness, not – John suspected- from an absence of feeling, but more from the simple inexperience with the act of letting the masks fall away and just feeling. 

Seeming to feel John's gaze on him, Sherlock glanced back down to the cylinder encasing him, then back up to John … the blankness started to fill with a familiar expression as if he was pulling his masks back up, but then Sherlock seemed to catch himself, and his expression softened, his eyes open and shaded with honest curiosity.

“What's next?” Sherlock questioned, in the same tone that he sometimes asked if John realized that he was complimenting Sherlock on some of his more astonishing deductions. 

Though John would have wagered that Sherlock had probably anticipated at least some of what was to follow, his expression -for once- wasn't it's normal, rabidly-anticipatory expression, as if he were trying to race John to an answer that John already knew. So John held his gaze, and answered as mildly as he could manage, “Now, we wait.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, communicating confused disbelief without uttering a single word. 

“Before I inject you or feed you anything, Sherlock, I want at least one reading to gauge the time-line and rate that your erection will recede.”

“I see. Are you going to … remove the pump?” Sherlock's curious tone suddenly picked a slight chokiness, but John couldn't tell from it whether he should leave the cylinder in place or remove it. 

“I hadn't planned to, yet, as the grid-lines provide a convenient means measure change in your dimensions, but if you'd rather I remove it, I can take the same measurements using the calipers.”

Sherlock shook his head, before seeming to realize that he should have answered verbally.

“No, that's fine... that's fine; however, you'd like to take the measurements is fine.”

For Sherlock, it was as close to rambling as John had ever seen him, and something in his open expression and suddenly complacent, cooperative manner dropped pieces into place like a child's jigsaw-puzzle:

Sherlock's tendency to take up experimentation when he had energy to burn or needed to blow off some frustration, his sudden change from impatience to cooperation when John had started to take his pulse, his inability to stop his eyes from flickering back and forth between the cylinder and the covered tray, and even the fact that Sherlock had previously considered ED experiments seriously enough to wonder whether Molly could be a clinical observer... the pieces of the puzzle snapped together seamlessly as John considered what he had seen, and like any good puzzle when the pieces snapped together, it presented an interesting picture ... of his flatmate. 

Whether it was being an experimentation subject, specifically, or simply being subjected to a very personal medical procedure John wasn't sure, yet, but he intended to find out. He wasn't really surprised that Sherlock would have a kink or two; given the man's personality, it had been guaranteed, but to find that Sherlock had the trappings of a serious medical fetish - and that, moreover, it was one that he suspected Sherlock was not aware of... was an surprising... and intriguing thought. Watching Sherlock's eyes flicker back to the table, yet another time, John had no doubt that Sherlock's blind spot would come in very handy over the next few days.


	4. Twisting Screws

Smiling at Sherlock's impatience as he grudgingly finished the juice and sandwich that John forced on him- on the grounds that for the broadest application of their results, it would be advisable to simulate the common condition of the general user of protease inhibitors: moderately well fed, moderately rested, and with the expectation of impending erotic interactions, John dropped his gaze back to the clip board and scribbled another note. 

Throughout the nearly force-fed meal, which he'd described to Sherlock as a 'working lunch', John had referenced the last condition repeatedly asking Sherlock to recite for him the variety of foods with phallic connotations, to speculate his comfort or discomfort with popular positions, and to reiterate his familarity with various sexual techniques, practices, fetishes, and philosophies. Barely fifteen minutes into the meal, Sherlock had begun subconsciously shifting and squirming in his seat until he (repeatedly) realized what he was doing and fought to regain his composure and answered John's next question. 

Almost angrily eyeing John's only half finished meal... Sherlock seemed too distracted to realize that John was using the task of recording Sherlock's responses to draw the meal and Sherlock's discomfort out. Despite himself, John was quite enjoying watching his friend squirm as he returned again and again to questions suggestive of medical procedures and experimentation, having discovered early in the conversation that they had the greatest effect on Sherlock's physical reactions. 

Although the sight of Sherlock's groin was blocked by the kitchen table, John was certain from Sherlock's posture and careful position that the detective had quickly developed a sizeable erection that he had suffered without relief for a majority of the two hour 'snack'.

Sherlock's expression was pleasantly flushed as he watched John finish the last bite of his sandwich, then lick his lips as if checking for crumbs. Sherlock's throat pulsed lightly as he tried so control his shallow but rapid gulps for air, whenever one of John's questions caught him by surprise. 

Feeling Sherlock's eyes locked on his lips as he brought his teacup to his lips, cutting the line between Sherlock's fixed gaze and its target, and enjoying Sherlock's resultant frown, John decided it was time to up the ante before Sherlock regained his composure enough times to realize what John was doing. 

"Sherlock… in light of some of your answers, I have been reconsidering the general timeline and plans for our experiment…" he paused to suppress a chuckle as Sherlock's frown transformed into a positive glower, feeling for once that he was able to read exactly what Sherlock was thinking. 

"You might remember that I noted, having some days off come Monday?"

"Yes, John, I do remember that." Sherlock answered hurriedly, his tone and widened eyes a certain enough indication for John that he'd been distracted enough to actually have forgotten that fact, and its implication for their experiment. 

"My original thought had been to get good number of baselines out of the way this evening, but leave the actual start until Monday." 

Holding his hand up to forestall the protest he could see forming on Sherlock's lips, he offered, "Wait, let me rephrase that. First, I believe that we need to extend the time line, but given the essential scope of our final experiment, I don't feel that will be problematic, as presumably it could be performed even in spite of my schedule at the clinic this weekend."

Sherlock's glower lessened only marginally at his explanation, but he remained silent so John took the opportunity to explain: "by restructuring some of the experiments that I had intended to be later in the week and spend tonight, tomorrow night, and Sunday eve on constraining the scope of each individual experiment, I believe that we can increase the efficiency of each experiment and improve the accuracy of our assessments." 

Sherlock's eyebrows arched, sharpening his glower, as he considered the explanation, but as prone as he normally was to rush experiment, his craving for accuracy, scientific purity, and certainty won out, as John had known it would, and he tacitly agreed, asking: "How do you plan to go about this?"

"It is a tentative idea, certainly, but I believe the best course of action would be to divide the week by categories of input and, for each day, to run as many tests as possible to determine the range of stimuli that causes the greatest number of physical and physiological responses correlative with the erotic response modes typified by the protease inhibitor."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as he appeared to consider John's suggestion, and John strongly suspected that that he was visualizing the various experiments that John could perform in each area. 

"Given the potential range of stimuli, it would be impossible to develop a comprehensive list for any of the senses;" John continued before Sherlock could deflect or impose constraints on John's diversion, "however, if we are sufficiently thorough, we should be able to identify the most effective methods of dampening the senses most likely to impact our final results."

"W-where … which sense do you…" Sherlock stammered before trailing off uncomfortably, his pupils marginally more dilated than they had been a moment before.

Pretending to ignore the stumbled response, John tapped his fingers against his lips for several seconds, then began throwing out the list of 'considerations' that he had constructed through the morning.

"While starting with your responses to touch and physical exertion would probably have been the best place to start, giving you sufficient refractory time if we intended to run the final experiment at the end of the week, if you are willing to put off the final experiment, it would provide time gather a sufficient variety of tools with which to test the broadest variety of touch categories including heat, pain, presure, chemical, and pharmaceutical sensitivity. "

A sound that might have been a very soft, very suppressed moan broke from Sherlock, but relying on the detachment learned from years served as RAMC Medic, John kept his expression neutral and continued: "if we delay testing for auditory stimuli, it would give me the opportunity to record a variety of stimuli that have a higher probablity of creating a discernible physical effect."

"As the olfactory and paletory senses are the easiest to block and the most effected by the subjects transitory condition, they should require the least investigation; therefore, should be be considered last as time permits."

Sherlock's chin canted quickly to the side, in confusion, as he considered what senses remained, seeming to come up with a blank.

"While I acknowledge that this is your experiment, and I am merely a test subject… perhaps you would permit constructive criticism?" Sherlock commented in a familiar tone of complaint, barely waiting for John's nod before he continued softly, "It seems you have entirely excluded a starting point... If you would prefer to continue the experiment with another subject, it would be rather less a waste of time to simply state that: I assure you that I will not take offense."

Shaking his head as he tried to suppress the fond smile at Sherlock's tone, which completely contradicted his words, John corrected his friend, "hardly, Sherlock, hardly at all. I'm surprised that you should think so, in fact… especially that _you_ should think so."

Watching Sherlock visibly trying to parse through his comment, when his friend's innocence once again proved itself, John took pity on Sherlock and explained somewhat fondly, "You might remember that I framed the stimuli in terms of input… not specifically sensory input..." he hinted. 

Giving a clearly forced nod, as his expression slipped from confused to almost petulant with the obvious statement that he still clearly hadn't recognized, Sherlock muttered, "Of course, my point still stands."

"Actually," John grinned, "It doesn’t. What you've failed to take into consideration Sherlock is that one of the most important sources of sexual stimuli is the mind. For the next two days, I should like to put that brilliant mind of yours to the task of categorizing, measuring, and explicating the details of sexual scenarios that cause the swiftest and most potent arousal responses."

Glancing up into Sherlock's slightly gobsmacked and dropped-jaw expression, John pulled the top sheet of paper off of his notepad and handed it to Sherlock. "Here's a list from our earlier conversation with 28 topics for sexual experimentation, while I'm at work, take each one and fill out the details of the scenario that increase your arousal. When I get back from the clinic, we can go through the scenarios you've come up with and narrow down the list to scenarios we can replicate during the course of the experiment."

Sherlock took the list and read over it, his eyes widening and his shifting and fidgeting increasing with every until his eyes reached the bottom of the list and he looked back up to John's. Studying Sherlock's gaze, John thought his pupils were just a bit glassier and unfocused, and his breathing, just the slightest bit faster and more ragged as he folded the page with a lack of his normal grace and tried to tuck it into his upper pocket, missing the first time, as he answered, "Very well." 

Knowing he would be pushing his luck with his next comment, John still couldn't help himself: "Oh, on a side note, Sherlock, just to be sure we won't be taxing your system's ability to produce ejaculate during our latter stages of experimentation - at least for this portion, it would be best if you do not actively masturbate, nor allow yourself to otherwise acheive completion."

The slightly choked sound of dread that escaped Sherlock was nothing compared to the glimmer of almost despair that crossed his eyes as he looked down into his lap. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and his voice waivered as he started to protest, "John..."

"No, Sherlock, I really must insist. To run through the battery of experiments that I'm planning, you really must have something in reserve or your physical incapacity will undermine the accuracy of our results when we reach the stage where you'll take the protease inhibitors."

The warring desires that crossed Sherlock's face as the detective considered his response were fascinating to watch, and at several points, John suspected that Sherlock was about to tell him to bugger off, but between the threat of two weeks' boredom and the call of an untried experiment, the detective's resistance was finally tamed. Clinching his eyes shut abruptly, Sherlock curled his hands into tight fists at the table's edge, and answered weakly, "Yes, John."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by the letter S.... and a lost bet.

Sighing wearily as he climbed the top of the stairs, John fumbled with his key in the lock, hoping silently that Sherlock had either completed his assigned list and gone to bed or alternately gotten sick of the assignment and done the same. It had been a deucedly-long day at the clinic, and he was twice done and more than a bit certain that he wasn't ready to deal with a stroppy flatmate if his friend was still awake. 

Some instinct as sharp as any of the battlefield intuitions John had ever expierienced in Afghanistan warned him that Sherlock would be inescapable from the moment he stepped into the flat. The accuracy of these moments of intuition were so well-proven that for a brief moment, John was more than a little bit tempted to reverse course, beg a couch at Harry's flat, guilt Gregg into backing up his promise of a pint... only to kill the temptation as he'd remembered the time on the wall clock as he'd left the clinic: past 11:00 - when he'd finally been able to hand the young addict whom they'd spent most of the night trying to keep stable while a medical center was assigned, off to the medical transport driver and medic. 

Sadly, the nature of case was not all that unusual; London had a glut of youth who had lost faith in the promise of their futures for a wide array of reasons and turned to drugs or alcohol for escape. More weeks out of the year than not, he'd treated either the addicts or just as often their victims - elderly, tourists, shop-keeps, etc. who happened to stray into their sights and wound up mugged or worse when the addicts needed more money to fuel their habits. Every time he treated these poor unfortunates, it sapped him of both physical and emotional stamina and left him wrecked by the end of the day - and much more cynical about London and its inhabitants. 

Still, he paused, resting his hand on the knob, there was something at least marginally salutary about returning to the flat with Holmes present: a reminder that at least one former(?)-addict was more or less off the streets and working toward reaching a bit of that promise and that working with him in his free hours had given John the opportunity to help remove some of the worst predators from the London streets. That affirmation somehow made it significantly easier to go through the door and move up the stairs. 

Something was off, however, when he stepped into the flat. John recognized that immediately. The tension in the flat was palpable and not with the familiar air of quiet that followed a typical boredom inspired outburst from Sherlock. This feeling was far more reminiscient of the almost silent buzz of anticipation that fell over the world during an airborne artiliary raid - between one bomb and the next - as if the ground itself was holding its breath while waiting to see if the bomber's run was over. 

Silently moving into the sitting room as he scanned what he could see of the flat, John was relieved not to find overturned chairs, wrecked lamps, or other signs of a tussle. Instead, Sherlock's violin was properly set aside as Sherlock sometimes did when he had it out of its case, but was not finished using it as a compliment to whatever train of thought he was working through. 

Since the sitting room was empty, that left only the kitchen as John had never seen Sherlock go to his room even for a small errand without returning the violin to its case, even when he would almost immediately retrieve it on his return. It was a small distinction, but John had never seen an instance to refute the observation, so John followed his first instinct, hung his outer coat on its hook, and headed toward the kitchen.

Surprisingly unaware of John's approach as he entered the room - affording John the unusual opportunity of observe him unawares- Sherlock was sitting stiffly at his customary seat, hunched over, with his elbows on the table, his fingers spearing violently through the tangled appearing mess of his hair, as he muttered something under his breath that John could barely hear until he moved closer. 

"Stimuli does not equate to response," Sherlock growled to himself quietly. "Stimuli … all stimuli can be blocked to prevent transmition and reaction. Physical functions are little more than transport to …"

"Sherlock…" John interrupted quietly as he stepped further into the kitchen, trying to hide his amusement as he noticed that Sherlock was sitting so that one knee was pressed to the outside of the table leg instead of his customary sitting position (knees to heels pressed tightly together and well-tucked under the edge of the table). If he was interpreting Sherlock's muttering correctly, that morning's gambit had been successful and his friend had been at least marginally affected by the exercise John had tasked him to work on.

"... support the efficient functioning of the mind," Sherlock continued on, not seeming to hear the interruption as he continued- insisting breathily in an odd mix of anger and near pleading, "Solely and exclusively transport - transport that should not be pandered to beyond securing the efficient delivery of needed calories and ..."

Sighing as he shook his head and walked past the kitchen table to get himself a tea before attemptiing to deal with his clearly put out flat mate. Despite the fact that Sherlock was clearly as affected as John had hoped he might be, the man rarely made things easy, and John was beginning to suspect that convincing him to follow through on any of the fantasies he'd been dwelling on throughout the day - if for no other reason than to alleviate his built-up tension - was not a fore-gone conclusion. 

Sloshing a bit of water through the kettle to test whether it might have been subjected to some random experiment since that morning, though he doubted, John watched the water pour out clear, decided 'good enough', refilled the kettle, and lit the burner... noticing as he did that Sherlock's muttering had continued throughout the entire process. Perhaps... he mused... perhaps it had been a mistake to overlook how rabidly and fixedly Sherlock would focus on any sort of mental challenge... much less his disdain for giving in to his physical needs. John had only intended the list of fantasy scenarios to be a bit of mental foreplay - to get his sexually repressed flatmate a little more invested in the weeks activities - while giving John a ready source of ideas that Sherlock wouldn't be immediately bored with. 

Setting the kettle down on the eye, John turned and leaned his hip against the kitchen counter to wait. 

Sherlock still hadn't seemed to realize that he was in the room, and tilting a bit to the side, John quickly realized why. Sherlock's eyes were clinched as tightly shut as a the eyes of a child who was trying to desperately deny the possibility of a monster under the bed. Considering Sherlock's limited sexual experience and his intense reaction to the slightest hint of ignorance, boredom, or stagnating inactivity, the analogy was probably more than apt... So... , John wondered, how did one soothe the nerves of a fully-grown, emotionally-stunted man-child desperately trying to deny his fear of the 'monster' hiding under his covers, deep in his subconcious instincts? 

Sitting bolt straight as the kettle whistled, Sherlock finally whirled in his seat - his eyes falling on John with an expression that John couldn't interpret at all. The severity of Sherlock's distraction became immediately obvious, when instead of scanning him up and down to report back to him his own activities of the day, Sherlock stared at him for several seconds before quickly flickering his gaze away as he realized what he'd been doing and a flush rose on his cheeks. 

So, John had somehow figured into his fantasies. Well, he'd hoped he might, but hadn't counted heavily on it. After all, despite being somewhat fit and moderately intelligent, John couldn't really imagine anything about himself - aside from a certain measure of convenience - that might entice Sherlock into anything more than one off. Still to have made far enough into a fantasy that it caused a blush - well that was a pretty high compliment. 

"Sugar or milk?" He asked politely as he turned back to hide his smile at Sherlock's embarrassment. Pulling down a mug for Sherlock, John filled both and retrieved a small plate and a package of jammy dodgers from the cupboard and turned back to find Sherlock staring at him as if trying to solve a puzzle he couldn't articulate - seeming unresponsive even to John's simple request. 

Speechless was perhaps a better description, John realized after a momen'ts pause enabled him to see that Sherlock's lips were opening and closing fish-like as if he were trying to form words but seemed to have had so many backed up in his thoughts that he couldn't quite manage to spit them out. 

"Sip some of your tea, Sherlock," John counseled setting the mug down in front of him before passing to his own seat. Hoping to set Sherlock more at ease, John nibbled away at the dodgers for several seconds without comment, hoping that his indifference would help diffuse the tension making Sherlock's posture increasingly stiff and formal. 

"Sixteen minutes … forty-two to forty-five seconds." Sherlock commented, out of the blue, explaining almost automatically - "That's how long you've been … present in the flat, without my noticing."

"So," John commented, "Youv'e ignored me longer."

Shaking his head, Sherlock replied, "no, I haven't," and held his hand up to forestall John's protest. "Ignoring inane requests and trivial rants, John, is not the same as ignoring your presence in the flat. I have never ignored your presence." 

"Seems to me I remember you asking me when I’d left the flat, more than a couple of times." John remarked, wondering whether Sherlock had simply deleted the events as being beneath his notice to mark when John inconvenienced him with his absence. 

"Simply tracking the progress in your ability to report events accurately." Sherlock answered, "there has been some improvement, but it's been tiresomely slow. Coming from a background of both military and medical training, I had expected somewhat better, but you have made progress."

"Sure," John snorted with disbelief, amused that Sherlock was trying to deflect the accusation. 

Sherlock paused to glance at the clock before answering, "Thirty weeks, four days, and nine hours ago, when I first asked you, you growled, ranted about something that had absolutely nothing to do with my question and stormed out. Twenty-four weeks, four days, and twelve hours (I would have asked at nine hours but Lestrade had called), you answered that you'd been out 'a bit' ... really John 'a bit'(?). Eighteen weeks, four days, nine hours, you answered that you'd been out more than five hours. Twelve weeks, four days, nine hours, you noted that you'd been out eight and half hours. While you had been out eight hours, twenty-six minutes, it was within an acceptable range of error."

"Sherlock… wait, are you telling me that … that every six weeks, you've been checking to see how accurately I'd report the time I'd spent elsewhere. Why didn't you simply tell me that…" John trailed off as the realization hit him. "Right, right. You don't tell the test subject because it could skew the data. Six week's 'd be far enough apart that I wouldn't notice, but close enough and evenly spaced enough that you would be able to follow the trend. Wait... six weeks. You'd said twelve weeks, but if it's every six... What happened six weeks ago?"

Sniffing with disdain, Sherlock favored him with a thin grimace, but whether from being caught out or not, John wasn't certain… until Sherlock answered, "You elected not to go out, preferring to watch some mind-numbing tennis match when tennis isn't even your preferred sport."

"Some … tennis match? Sherlock," John asked, remembering how he'd spent that weekend, "Sherlock, some mind-numbing tennis match? That was the Wimbledon, Sherlock! An internationally-recognized _GRAND SLAM_ Championship - watched by mill--" John remembering how unlikely it was for the fact that millions watched Wimbledon to impress Sherlock in any way. "Right... sports... if the solar system doesn't make the cut, how could a pedestrian little hobby like tennis be relevant."

"Seriously, John? Athletic events are _FAR_ more relevant than solar orbits. Annually, more than two thousand six hundred fatalities are attributed to syndicate collection attempts on gambling debts: a clearly unrepresentative figure, considering that only twenty-three nations report that specific statistic. The ridiculously named doping scandals affecting baseball, gymnastics, and cycling have resulted in signficant advances in forensic blood analysis. Both the 1946 and 1984 Winter Olympics featured athletes, who had honed their native talents through their sideline occupations as hired assasins. Even the Wimbledon Championships you are so ready to laud offer some redeemable features in terms of post-match examinations of Wimbledon's clay courts, which provide an excellent variety of depth and tread models for footprint patterns during varying weather conditions. Not that any of these considerations influenced your decision to spend fourteen hours watching a contest roughly equivalent to juvenile cats batting yarn-rounds across linoleum. Sherlock sneered with disdain; his expression clearly miffed at the affrontery of John unintentionally throwing off his undisclosed experiment. 

"Sorry 'bout that." John answered, insincerely. "So are there any other experiments I should know about? Just to avoid any undue interruptions?"

Sherlock's arched eyebrow and silence were all the confirmation he needed, and John felt far less guilty about twisting the knife as he commented: " Silly me, telling the subject that a test is in progress would clearly skew the results. … So, have you settled enough to for us to head upstairs, take measurements, and give you some relief from the pronounced arousal you have bee..." John broke off - cut off by the 'crah-clink' sound of Sherlock's mug clattering as he dropped the hand holding it onto the table, with enough force to shear the handle from it's cup. 

"Sherlock ?!? " John asked startled by the vehemance of Sherlock's reaction.

Silent, his friend stared at the detached handle, cheeks warming with a noticeable flush even as his skin paled. There was a shiver of movement that John suspected might actually be Sherlock trembling before he quickly suppressed it with a deep sigh. 

"Sometimes, I forget that you can, and often do, observe, where others only see. " Sherlock's admission was whispersoft, barely carrying to John. "You're a doctor; I should have known that you'd see… that you'd know."

"Sherlock…"John began gently, certain that Sherlock wouldn't feel any better if John treated him with platitudes and sympathy. "You were distracted, but I think you've forgotten something else, as well." When his friend only glanced up, but not far enough to see his face, John continued, "Have you really stopped to consider what part my medical knowledge and personal experience in this area, which you may or may not have deduced, but which I am not bragging to say is significantly more than yours, may have informed me to expect from your activities, today."

Stuttering, "Y - y -ou kn-new," Sherlock looked up in shock, searching John's eyes, before repeating, "Y - you knew, I'd be … aff-affected, like… like this." 

"Sexual fantasies can have a singularly distracting and stimulating effect even for us poor _normal_ dullards; seed them into a mind as rich and fertile as yours…. and yes, I expected you to be affected. As you've said so many times, you're body is transport; I simply set the course for where it would take you. The only matter I wasn't certain of was whether my allusion to scientific integrity would be enough for you to refrain from getting off."

Sherlock's eyes shuttered for a moment, preventing John from reading how Sherlock was reacting to his words. After a moment, the fingers clutched around the broken mug handle relaxed dropping it and momentarily drawing John's notice as they stretched almost spasmodically before half curling into an almost relaxed - meditative position. Suprised, John glanced up, and Sherlock's eyes opened. 

Seconds passed without John breathing as he stared into Sherlock's open, unguarded gaze. 

Sucking in a breath, when he finally had no other chioce, John almost immediately dismissed the possibility of Sherlock shamming. Certainly, the man could contort his expression into every sort of stereotypical appearance from feral killer too saintly priest, without a seconds' hesitation, and his voice was similarly so adaptable, easily ranging from the tonalities of Mandarin Chinese to the glottal stops characterizing tribal languages of sub saharan Africa to the unvoiced consonants of the nearby French. Sherlock even had two versions of a 'Texas' accent: one truly terrible with a too-obvious twang that no one could help but question - no matter how dim the audience - and the other a gentlemanly drawl that even a native Texan would not doubt. Sherlock's 'Aussie' accent was, admittedly, comical, but John tended to believe that stemmed more from Sherlock's opinion of the Austrailians than from any inability to perfectly mimic their speech patterns. His eyes, however... Sherlock's eyes couldn't sham for shit. 

So many times John had waited for one of Sherlock's acts to be blown by the variety of emotions dancing in his gaze, but to date, it had never happened because Sherlock was so good at deflecting his audiences that no one ever seemed to look into the detective's eyes. 

Sincerity was easily faked by someone as skilled as Sherlock - simply an expression of earnestness laid over a mask of innocence - even John could fake sincerity. What John was seeing, though, was far more complex, and truthfully, an expression of the like that - if the sexual history he'd given John was to be believed, and John was certain that it was- Sherlock wouldn't have the slightest clue of how to go about shamming. John himself, had only come to recognize it from several years' worth of 'play' dating back to his in the first semester in medical school after a brief fling, the semester before, with a very inventive and decidedly imaginitive instructor who was only interested in going through as many of the soon-to-be graduating senior class as she could before their final semester ended. 

She hadn't realized, of course, that John would be staying on after graduation for medical School, and the unexpected frequency of times they'd bumped into each other over the first weeks fo the following semester, despite being in separate departments, heavily tested the probability of coincidence, and John's temprament as she repeatedly greeted him as if they had shared nothim more than an exchange of business cards at a formal Academy Job Faire. He'd let it go for six weeks before a blistering lecture from another instructor who accused him of relying on her favoritism to keep him in classes fell on a bad day when he'd spent the entire night studying instead of (as the other professor accused) in her bed. 

Sick of his classmate's sniggers by the time that he'd run into his former instructor in the library stacks, that afternoon, John lost his temper on sight, and in clear and explicit detail gave her a verbal thrashing for the way she'd treated him and the rest of his classmates, as little more than chattel, for letting her reputation get so out of control that his class standing was affected by it, and for just being so bloody unprofessional and indiscreet into the first place. The entire time he'd fussed, she'd kept her head down, chin against her chest, cheeks flushed with shame until he'd finish his rant, then she shocked the breath out of him. 

Shooting a quick glance in both directions, before she did it, his instructor dropped to her knees, crossed her wrists behind her and, bowing low over her lap, apologized quietly and profusely for her behavior. 

Stripped of his anger by her behavior, John had accepted her nervously apologies, coaxed her to her feet, sure that they were going to be discovered at any moment, and sat with her until she'd 'come back up a bit', she'd explained that until a few months earlier she'd lived as a 24/7 submissive in an long-term arrangement with a colleague in her department, an arrangement that had broken up just a few weeks before John's graduation. Admitting that she'd 'gone into a bit of a spiral' and was having difficulty coming to terms with not only how she'd treated him, but also with her new, definitely unwanted lifestyle, she explained that she had already overwhelmed by what she'd been feeling, when he'd run into her, and let herself be 'triggered' by his display into dropping to a level that she could cope with everything - feeling certain from what she already knew of him, that he wouldn't take advantage nor abuse her in that state. 

She'd been the first submissive he'd ever met, but far from the last, a fact she was also partially responsible for - taking him out to one of her favorite clubs by way of apology and later when his interest had deepened, vouching for him to some regulars, who in turn vouched for him to others. Before long, he'd become a regular, himself, dropping in and out of the community as often his studies, military leave, or cases with Sherlock allowed. So, John was speaking from an abundance of experience when he lowered his voice to a gentle tone and ordered, "Sherlock, stand up."


End file.
